


You Never Met A Monster You Couldn’t Love

by whovianmuse



Series: Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: Leta doesn't quite know what possesses her to do it. Perhaps it's out of sheer curiosity, to see what it might be like to be with someone so kindhearted and genuine, a striking contrast to all the silver-tongued, cocksure serpents she'd ever taken to bed, egos tainted by a collection of casual lovers singing sweet lies disguised as moans and sighs that tricked them into believing they were gods between the sheets.





	You Never Met A Monster You Couldn’t Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction inspired by _Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them_. Respective concepts, characters, and settings from the original source content belong to their creator(s). There are references to lyrics from the song _Make Up Your Mind_ by Florence And The Machine throughout this story, as well. No copyright infringement is intended.  
>   
>  **Author's Note:** So this is my super angsty headcanon for what potentially caused the rift between Newt, Leta, and Theseus. Please keep in mind that this story is not meant to be 100% accurate or canon compliant, and some details may have been changed in order to suit the plot. Both Newt and Leta are 17 years old when this story takes place, which, according to wizarding law, means that they are both legally considered adults. I have no intention of writing underage content. Additionally, I would like to make it clear that I am in no way character bashing or mislabelling anyone as the villain. No one is at fault here, it's just a complicated situation. I truly believe that Newt, Leta, and Theseus are all kindhearted characters with good intentions.
> 
> P.S. I'd like to thank my friend [soulfulsam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulfulsam) for brainstorming ideas for this fic with me <3

The very last evening before the summer holidays finds two seventeen year old sixth year students sneaking out of the castle past curfew to watch the sun dip down below the horizon over the vast canvas of the Black Lake. 

Two ruffled silk neckties, one cast in crisp shades of silver and emerald, the other in bold stripes of black and yellow, lay forgotten in the overgrown tufts of grass that scatter the rolling hills behind them. 

Their owners dwell just ahead, perfectly at ease in brash disregard of their school's golden rules as they settle against the lush verdant slope of the grassy hill, features silhouetted by the shadow of the setting sun. 

Leta reclines on her back, propped up on her elbows, fingertips digging into the earth amidst dew-soaked blades of grass, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she revels in the simple delight of warm sunlight dancing across her skin. 

Newt, on the other hand, who has never quite managed the task of staying still, sits cross-legged on a patch of uneven grass beside her, drumming a steady beat against his knees as he sways in perfect rhythm with the balmy breeze, eyes alight with wonder, a goofy grin splayed across his face as he watches the giant squid splash and twirl in the middle of the massive lake.

Leta can't help the full-blown smile that blooms at the sight of him, sunlight no doubt adding to the crowded collection of freckles that dapple the bridge of his nose and the sharp curves of his cheekbones, hair the color of cinnamon and honey, as adorably windswept as it always is, lit up like a wildfire in the glow of the setting sun.

For a moment, Leta simply stares at him, transfixed by the pure, unadulterated awe and admiration etched into his every feature, by his genuine loving nature for every creature that has ever had the good fortune to cross his path.

Without warning, a bittersweet pang of longing erupts in her chest, and Leta finds herself desperately wishing that someone would look at _her_ like that, that someone would love _her_ just as passionately and as unconditionally as Newt loves his creatures. 

A very specific _someone_ , to be exact. Someone she's managed to convince herself, after all the years she's known him, after all the time she's spent in his company at his family's home every Christmas, Easter, and summer holiday, would never return her affections, far too caught up in his life outside these castle walls.

Before she can bury these unwelcome emotions back down, rearranging her features into the carefully crafted, well-worn mask of pride and indifference she's learned to wear for years, Newt's eyes lock onto hers, and she can tell, by the subtle shift in his expression, by the searching concern and fierce protectiveness set into the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, that he's seen all he needs to, that she's been caught.

_It's funny_ , Leta muses. From the very first moment she'd met him, Newt had this nervous habit of never quite being able to look anyone in the eye. Normally, Leta would delight in the fact that _she_ is the rare exception to this rule, because it means that he feels safe around her, because it means that he trusts her, because it means that she is _special_. But in this moment, Leta feels she would do anything to escape his penetrating gaze, to pretend that nothing had happened, that she hadn't let a single detail about her damnable _feelings_ escape.

Although…it's strange, the way he looks at her just now, with equal parts adoration, compassion, curiosity, and hopefulness, overwhelming in just how raw and honest it is, in how _lovely_ it is, in how he manages to pour so much affection into one simple stare. She finds it difficult to look away from him, mesmerized by the warmth of the setting sun mirrored in his eyes, hues of gold and peach and grapefruit dancing across his irises like infinitesimal starbursts kissing the surface of the sea.

She allows herself the intoxicating impossibility to wonder if, perhaps, everything she's ever wanted, everything she's ever craved, nothing more or less than the deepest and most desperate desire of her heart, has been here all along…only, not in the way she'd been expecting. 

In this moment, Newt looks at her like she's a work of art, like she's Christmas come early, like she's the most beautiful creature he has ever seen, and the weight of what that might possibly _mean_ overwhelms and consumes her.

Convinced for the longest time that her best friend's not-so-subtle glances, rosy cheeks, and nervous laughter were nothing more than mere puppy love, Leta starts to wonder whether it's actually _more_ than just a silly schoolboy crush, whether Newt's alleged feelings for her run deeper than he's lead on. 

She wishes, oh how she _wishes_ that she could return feelings like that for the boy she's always thought of as a brother, because if anyone deserves to be loved in the same way that Leta has always desired for herself, it's Newt. Sweet, wonderful Newt. Her best friend of nearly six years. The one man who's never led her astray. 

_But maybe_ , she thinks, maybe she could _try_.

**• • •**

Leta doesn't quite know what possesses her to do it.

Perhaps it's out of sheer curiosity, to see what it might be like to be with someone so kindhearted and genuine, a striking contrast to all the silver-tongued, cocksure serpents she'd ever taken to bed, egos tainted by a collection of casual lovers singing sweet lies disguised as moans and sighs that tricked them into believing they were gods between the sheets. Someone with a clean slate, untouched by a complicated personal history and preconceived notions of what a night of intimacy _should_ be like.

But then, it occurs to her, that's all just baseless assumption. Perhaps Newt isn't actually as _inexperienced_ as she's been led to believe. After all, it's not like the two of them have ever broached the subject before. On the contrary, they've always carefully _avoided_ it. For all Leta knows, Newt could very well have invited any number of Hufflepuff girls (or boys, for that matter) to his bedroom in all the time she's known him. If Newt's four-poster bed was big and cozy enough to support the pair of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, huddled over stacks of dusty, leather-bound books on all manner of dangerous magical creatures snuck from out of the Restricted Section, then surely, it was fit for… _other_ activities.

An odd, unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling coils the pit of her stomach at the thought of Newt, naked and writhing, with some vague silhouette of another woman. She's startled to realize that this newfound feeling might very well be jealousy. _Jealousy_ over some imaginary, likely nonexistent person who had managed to stake claim on Newt without her knowledge. (She won't even allow herself to think the words _before I got to_.)

Perhaps it's a test, though whether it's to figure out her complicated feelings for her best friend, or to solidify her unrivaled affection for his older brother, Leta isn't entirely certain. She's conflicted, torn between what she's always wanted and what could potentially be _good_ for her. 

What's more, it's impossible to make up her mind between the the pair of them when everything is so uncertain, when all she has to go off of are inferences and assumptions. Because, in truth, Leta simply _does not know_ the depth of either Scamander brothers' feelings for her. After all, it's not as though Newt would ever work up the nerve to confess his affections for her aloud, and Theseus…well, it was only a kiss, just that one time, and Leta hadn't seen him again since. A lot could change in six months' time.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Leta manages to convince herself that someone as pure of heart as Newt couldn't possibly fall in love with someone like _her._ That his feelings for her, _if_ they even exist at all, are merely the product of rogue hormones and the inevitable bond that growing up together in such close proximity brings. 

If he _does_ have any kind of romantic intentions toward her…well then, Leta reasons, it's likely nothing more than a passing fancy or piqued curiosity. And maybe, if she indulges him, just this once, gives him a taste of what it's like, it would be enough to get this fantasy out of his system for good, and then everything could finally go back to normal between them.

Or perhaps it's because, in a moment of sheer desperation, born out of a fear of potentially missing out on _what-ifs_ and _what-could-have-beens_ somewhere down the line, out of a desire to simply take what she can get, to secure something _good_ while she still has the chance, Leta tells herself that she could _learn_ to love him, over time, in the same way she's always loved his brother. 

It's not exactly _settling_ in the worst sense of the word if the person you're settling for is indisputably wonderful, is it?

And is it truly _settling_ , when you're not entirely certain how you even feel about the person? What if the love that she feels for Newt really _is_ the romantic sort, but she just doesn't know it yet? What if it's simply been lying dormant, all this time, buried beneath the surface of years of seemingly platonic companionship, waiting to be sparked into life by some pivotal moment? Perhaps, if something were to happen between them, something amorous in nature, and it felt _right_ , Leta would finally know for sure.

Or maybe, it all just boils down to the primal ache of loneliness, and the girl who had spent her entire life shrouded in the shame her family name elicits in impolite conversation, who had never gotten anything but contempt and revulsion wrapped in cruel whispers traded by classmates and passersby, who had never felt genuine affection from her family, from insincere sweethearts and fleeting affairs, from anyone other than her best and only friend, simply wants to feel _wanted_ , only if for one night.

She never saw the harm in it. After all, she had never really thought of sex as anything special, just an act of sharing physical pleasure, and nothing more. Determined not to let the abominable manner in which she had been conceived fuel any kind of fear or negative association to the act itself, Leta had sought to take control of her own sexuality, to make certain that equal pleasure and perpetual, enthusiastic consent was absolute on both sides, and ultimately, to never allow herself to develop any kind of emotional attachment to anyone she engaged with, convinced as she was that no one could ever truly love her the way she so desperately wished she could be loved.

It had been easy, because up until this point, no one had ever meant enough, been _special_ enough, to break through the well-constructed walls she'd built to guard her heart. It wasn't until she had witnessed, first hand, the kind of emotional impact that such an act could have upon a person, that she fully understood and embraced it. Not until she saw the effect it had had on Newt. Not until she _experienced_ the effect it could have on her. _Not until Theseus_.

How could she know, in that moment, that she would spend the better part of a decade looking back on that fateful night, running the same scenario over and over again on an endless loop in the back of her mind, mulling over a series of different reasons and excuses as to _why_ she chose to pursue it? How could she possibly know that this one spur-of-the-moment decision would serve as a catalyst for a series of events that would irrevocably change their lives forever, fracturing the only friendship she had ever known?

In spite of all her musing, Leta truly _does not know_ what _actually_ inspires it in the end, (perhaps it's everything, perhaps it's nothing,) but before she even realizes the full extent of _why_ she's doing what she's doing, she's taking Newt by the hand and leading him back into the castle, through a series of winding corridors, up spiral staircase after spiral staircase, until they're standing in front of the Room of Requirement, a sea of stars bursting across the midnight blue sky, captured like a masterpiece on the canvas of the stained glass windows on either side of the doorframe, bathing the corridor in a silver glow. 

Newt eyes her quizzically, lips poised on the edge of a thousand different questions, but Leta merely offers him a covert smile, before pushing open the massive oak doors. Only when Newt sees the makeshift bedroom, lit by a series of floating candles and covered in lavish silks, rose petals in valentine hues scattered across the plush merlot carpet leading up to the king-sized canopy in the center of the room, does he truly understand Leta's intentions. 

His heart summersaults into his throat, equal parts thunderstruck and thrilled. He's stunned to silence at the sight of her, eyeing him cautiously in the flickering flame of the candlelight, hardly daring to believe that this isn't all just another one of his private fantasies.

With a jolt, he realizes that she's waiting for his confirmation, for his consent. The last thing he wants her to assume is that he isn't interested, and so, with much difficulty, he summons the courage to ask her if she's absolutely _certain_ she wants to do this with him, stumbling over a poorly rehearsed chorus of how brilliant and beautiful she is, how much she means to him. 

Leta visibly relaxes, offering him an encouraging smile as she guides him toward the bed, undressing them both in quick succession. He follows in her lead, allowing her complete control, never taking his eyes off of her as she wraps her arms around his bare shoulders, settling between his thighs with more grace and finesse than he could ever hope to possess. She's like fire and silk, and he's amazed by her every move.

**• • •**

Hard as she tries to focus her attention on the man before her, it's his _brother's_ face she sees every time she closes her eyes. When Leta kisses Newt, all she can think about is the one and only time she'd ever kissed Theseus. But really, it should come as no surprise that these thoughts would sink their teeth in at this late hour, as she'd spent so much of the past few months replaying that magnificent moment in her mind.

Last Christmas Eve, after everyone else had gone to bed, Leta had snuck out of her room to find Theseus nursing a mug of cocoa by the fire. His smile had been like pure sunlight as he stared up at her, surprised but not at all displeased to see her. 

He'd conjured her a mug of her own and coaxed another plushy armchair to sidle up right beside his own, spending the night regaling her with tales of honor, danger, and adventure fighting alongside his fellow Aurors, reminiscing about their favorite classes and hideaways across the expansive map of the castle grounds, laughing as he listened with rapt attention to all of Leta's stories about the kind of mayhem and mischief she and Newt got up to after hours back at school.

As sunrise spilled over the tops of the snow-capped trees, Theseus had offered to walk her back to the guest bedroom that had long since become hers, but had paused, seemingly frozen, underneath a sprig of mistletoe. The two of them stared up at the bow-wrapped bouquet of holiday greenery with mirrored looks of amused curiosity, quite certain that it had not been there a moment before. And then, as if on instinct, in the same exact sliver of a second, their eyes had locked onto one another's, lips curving at the corners into a pair of playful smiles.

She'd burned every detail of that moment into the back of her mind, not knowing when or _if_ she'd ever get the chance to kiss him again, not knowing if he was already promised to someone else, or if this was just a one-time whim and he'd simply gotten caught up in the moment. 

Whatever it did or didn't lead to, Leta was determined to revel in it; the feeling of his hands in her hair, the way he'd pulled her closer, flush against his chest, the way a soft groan had caught in the back of his throat as she'd trailed her teeth along the edge of his lower lip.

Now, when she pulls back and looks into Newt's bright blue eyes, all she can see, amidst the all-consuming awe and affection and reverence they hold, as he comes undone beneath her, is _Theseus_. 

In that moment, there is no more confusion, no question, no doubt in her mind which one of them her heart belongs to. There is no choice left but to tell him, to finally confess the only _other_ secret she's been keeping locked away all these years.

Hours later, Leta lies awake, tangled in the sheets of the magically conjured king-sized canopy, watching the gentle rise and fall of Newt's chest as he sleeps beside her, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside her mind. 

It's such a strange combination of emotions; giddy excitement at the realization that she's _finally_ going to tell Theseus how she really feels about him, mulling over _how_ exactly she's going to do it, what she's going to say, carefully crafting the perfect string of poetic words to write to him the following morning, versus overwhelming shame and guilt for allowing herself to get so carried away daydreaming of a potential future with the _brother_ of the man she'd _just_ slept with. 

Contrition churns like vile venom in the pit of her stomach, a miserable sob caught in the back of her throat. She'd never meant to hurt her dearest friend, never meant to get them both caught up in such a complicated web. She just needed to _know_ , to sort out how she feels, once and for all. 

Her throat constricts with unshed tears, the deafening silence of the candlelit bedroom roaring like ocean waves inside her head. It's too much, too loud, too suffocating. She cannot stay here a moment longer. 

As carefully and quietly as she can manage without waking Newt, Leta slips from the silken sheets, wraps herself up in her school robes, vanishes what's left of her clothing back to her dormitory, and sweeps from the Room of Requirement, tears spilling down her cheeks as she hides from the caretaker among the shadows in the castle's corridors, and makes her way back down the long, winding stairwells to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons below.

**• • •**

Newt wakes to cheerful birdsong and sunlight dancing across his pale, freckled features, happier than he's ever felt in his entire life. 

He had _never_ expected—

Though he had always _hoped_ —

Not that he _often_ thinks about his best friend in such an immodest manner, mind you. Honestly, the farthest he'd ever really gotten was imagining what it might be like to _kiss_ her, to roam the hallways hand in hand as they made their way to class, doing everything they already did together, only _without_ the crushing anxiety of trying to keep his affections for her a secret, lest he spill his heart out and effectively ruin their friendship if she didn't feel the same way.

But after last night—

Such a sacred, special act, shared between two people—

All of this history between them—

Surely, it must mean that she—

But are they…does this mean that they're _together_ now?

Hope swells inside his heart like a burst of phoenix fire as he's swallowed in blissful memories of the prior evening, basking in the golden glow of a glorious future that had seemed like such a sweet impossibility only hours before. 

Heart in his throat, Newt rolls over to greet her, perhaps to press a gentle kiss to the top of her forehead, if she'll allow him the privilege, but finds the space beside him quite cold. His lips twitch, smile faltering as he stares unblinkingly at the expanse of ruffled sheets between his body and the edge of the bed, looking positively crestfallen.

_No matter_ , he tells himself, though his attempted grin is admittedly less genuine than it had been a moment ago. She must've just gotten up early and gone back to her dormitory to pack. And the reason she hadn't woken him is because she was being courteous, didn't want to disturb his sleep. Of course, that would have to be it. It's not like it's the last he'll ever see of her before the end of term. He'll simply catch her at breakfast, or on the Hogwarts Express.

But when he finally makes his way up to the Great Hall from his dormitory, hastily packed trunk in tow, eyes scanning the length of the polished wooden tables that sit just beneath striking banners of silver and emerald for her house, and black and yellow for his, he cannot seem to find her. And when he boards the train back home, poking his head into every seemingly empty compartment, before finally setting up camp in their usual spot and waiting for her to join him, she's nowhere to be found.

_No matter_ , Newt reassures himself as he plasters on a fake smile and clutches the stack of cauldron cakes and licorice wands he'd bought for Leta off the trolley. _I'll see her at the end of summer when she comes to stay, just like she always does._ _Until then, we'll always have our letters._

So he writes to her, once a week, every week, just as he'd always done for the past five summers. All throughout the sweltering month of July, Newt tucks away under the shade of a lilac tree, watching his mother's herd of hippogriffs graze and scavenge in the backyard, quill tip poised over the space between Leta's name and an empty scroll of parchment. 

He isn't entirely certain what he's supposed to say to her, what the protocol is now that so much has changed between them in the span of a single evening. 

Is he meant to act casual, to carry on as though nothing happened? Surely that would wound her, make it seem as though he's embarrassed, or regretful, or disinterested in pursuing a courtship. 

But then, what if he says too much, and comes off as far too brazen or forward? This is a rather delicate matter, one that Newt is in no way prepared to handle. But he'd still like to _try_. In the end, he decides it's best to just be honest.

So he writes to her, and tells her how amazing she is, how lucky he feels to have met her, how freeing it is to finally be able to tell her how he truly feels about her, after all these years of keeping it secret, afraid that it would uproot the foundations of their friendship. 

He writes her these letters, no more than two or three pages at most, once a week, every week, for little over a month. Rolls them up tightly. Presses them closed with a golden wax seal. Alternates between sending them off with his mother's, father's, brother's, and his own owl, just in case there's a hitch in delivery.

He never hears back from her. Not once, all month long.

**• • •**

Theseus, on the other hand, has apparently been writing back and forth with Leta rapid-fire all summer. 

Newt knows this, not because Theseus had confided in him, let alone bothered to reassure him of her well-being any of the countless nights he'd spent running track lines into the carpeting as he paced the living room floor, raking his fingers through his hair as he worried over whether or not Leta was in some kind of danger and _that's_ why she hadn't responded to any of his letters.

No, Newt only discovers this delightful little nugget of information because he has the extreme misfortune to happen upon Theseus's owl one fateful day in early August as she's delivering his morning mail. 

Tucked among the Daily Prophet and a stack of commendations is a little emerald green envelope with a glittering silver wax seal and Leta's signature cursive scrawl stamped across its center. 

He does not dare open it. He does not pry. He does not say a single word to Theseus about having glimpsed it. But he does, most assuredly, stop writing to Leta.

Less than a fortnight from the start of term for their seventh and final year, Newt receives a little green envelope of his own. Inside is a letter, containing little more than a brief, vague paragraph informing him that she's been incredibly busy these past few weeks, and she's about to embark on a tour of Paris for the last week of the summer holidays, so she won't be able to come and stay with him this time. 

She ends her letter with her name, and a simple _hope you are well_. Nothing about receiving any of his letters for the past month, no reassurance that she's safe and sound, no apologies for leaving him worried sick about her.

The next day, Theseus conveniently lets slip that he'll be away on a business trip to France for a couple of days as he kisses their mother goodbye. He gives Newt little more than a cursory nod and a clap on the shoulder before he twists on the spot and vanishes from sight.

**• • •**

She knows it's absolutely _horrible_ of her, but Leta just can't bring herself to respond to any of Newt's letters. Her spur of the moment decision had changed _so much_ between them, more than she'd ever thought possible, and she's at a complete loss for how to even _begin_ to go about repairing the damage it's caused. 

The worst part about all of this is how unnervingly _kind_ all of Newt's letters are, genuine affection dripping from every single word, laced with sweet sincerities and dulcet promises that tear her heart to pieces every time she reads them. It's all she's ever wanted, sung from the wrong man's lips.

Countless times, she thinks about writing back and simply telling him the truth, losing sleep as she agonizes over the perfect string of words that could let him down gently, and still allow her to preserve their treasured friendship. But, skilled as she is in wit and wordplay, there simply isn't a pleasant way to break someone's heart, no magic cure-all to the woes of such a delicate, complicated situation. 

The guilt of it consumes her, threatens to destroy her. Frozen with fear like a river in winter, Leta finds it impossible to craft a reply, neither to lie to him, nor to tell him the truth. And so, determined to delay the inevitable, to prolong having to hurt her dearest friend, Leta simply says nothing. Lets her silence speak volumes. Lets it linger. Lets it _fester_. Sets fire to their friendship and watches, with all the power in the world to douse it, as it burns to the ground.

As a happy distraction, Leta throws herself deeper into her correspondence with Theseus, joyous over the fact that he had so enthusiastically returned her affections in kind. Terrified that the truth would turn his favor ill, she keeps the secret of that fateful night with Newt from Theseus, never daring to believe that when it all finally came to light, he would be nothing short of compassionate and understanding, promising her that this does not sour how he feels about her, that whatever happened before the two of them got together is none of his business, and that his only concern lies in seeing his loved ones hurting.

When she finally _does_ write to Newt, upon his elder brother's insistence that, if she's not yet ready to break the news that they're together, she should _at least_ assure her dear friend that she's alive and well, she's careful to keep it short and simple, worded in such a way so as not to commit herself to anything she won't be able to follow through on, so as not to lie and promise him anything she can't ever give, dressing the poison up in pretty ribbons.

Deep down, in spite of her happy pretense, Leta knows that this will all come out eventually, that it will be devastating and ugly when it does. For now, she simply wants to enjoy the future that she and Theseus are building together, as wholly as she possibly can, before it all comes crashing down around her. 

After all, how exactly _does_ one administer the poison that breaks such a kind and gentle heart? _Is it best to sip it slowly, or drink it down in one?_

**• • •**

None the wiser of their one-night dalliance, Theseus writes to Leta late one afternoon on the eve of August, and urges her to contact Newt. He's grown weary of watching his little brother fret over the state of his friend's well-being these past few weeks, and although they may have their differences, Theseus wants only the best for him. 

He hasn't got a clue what's caused all this bad blood between them, what Newt could have possibly said or done to offend Leta so, but he knows it's not his place to pry, nor to meddle in the long-standing friendship between his girlfriend and his little brother, only to gently nudge them in the right direction.

He considers simply reassuring Newt himself, but doing so would mean revealing that he and Leta are in correspondence, which he fears would inevitably unravel the truth of their brand new courtship, and while Theseus would have no qualms at all about declaring his devotion to this magnificent woman to the whole of the wizarding world (and perhaps even the muggle world) he knows it is not up to him to divulge such information. That control remains entirely in Leta's grasp, and if she wants her best friend to know that she is seeing his older brother, then that is _her_ news to share.

Additionally, (and for this, he feels a small surge of guilt,) Theseus has an inkling that Newt may in fact be sweet on Leta, and he would hate to wound his brother's heart, or come across as though he is _bragging_ , or stealing away his little brother's best friend. Not to imply, of course, that Leta is a prize to be won, or an object to be stolen, merely an acknowledgment that Newt established a kinship with Leta _first_ , and Theseus does not wish to trespass or disrespect. 

Again, he reminds himself, it is not his place to say anything. It is _Leta's_ choice, and therefore, _her_ news to disseminate at her will. In the meantime, he will do his utmost to avoid bringing attention to his upcoming Parisian holiday plans with Leta, lest Newt become suspicious.

**• • •**

The Hogwarts Express glides like a scarlet serpent through a sea of pine trees and floral undergrowth as summer dies on the lips of autumn's first breath, and seventh years begin their journey back to the hideaway castle in the heart of Scotland for their final term. 

Coasting on the high of her recent Parisian getaway, Leta boards the train with a cheerful skip in her step, luggage packed with stacks of love letters and French chocolates, her heart fuller than it's ever been. 

Mind made up to act as though everything between them is perfectly fine, as though it's possible to willfully ignore all of her problems into nonexistence, Leta searches for Newt in every empty compartment, excited to tell him about all of the exotic creatures she'd come across on her holiday, though she can't seem to find him anywhere. 

She settles into the very last section at the end of the train, and orders two bottles of pumpkin juice and a mountain of chocolate frogs from the trolley, just in case Newt decides to show up and join her. Disheartened, Leta spends the entirety of the train ride alone.

She searches the crowd of students and thestral-drawn carriages as she wanders onto the platform in Hogsmeade Station, scans the four long tables in the Great Hall at the Start-of-Term Feast, scours all of his usual hiding places in between shadow-swathed corridors and secret passageways on her way down to her common room, even going so far as to ask his fellow housemates if anyone has seen him, but Newt is nowhere to be found. 

Just when she starts to worry that Newt has not returned to Hogwarts for their final year, Leta spots a familiar mop of cinnamon and honey hued hair, sitting at the front of the classroom at _her_ old desk from the previous year, quill held aloft over a half-filled scroll of notes. 

She makes a concentrated effort to wave to him as she passes him by, but he appears to not see her, eyes set straight ahead, boring holes into the chalkboard with a distracted, despondent expression on his face.

She chooses a desk at the very back of the classroom, stacks all of her books to the left, and rips a piece of parchment off the end of one of her scrolls, scribbling a quick note: _Have you seen Prendergast's ridiculous new haircut?_ before transfiguring it into a miniature raven and sending it off in the direction of Newt's desk. 

A sharp paper beak pokes him in the back of the head, and his fingers clench momentarily around his quill, shoulders tensing as he flicks away the offending note and lets it fall to the floor beside him. After about a minute, he visibly relaxes, and resumes his quiet contemplation. 

Figuring he's probably just exhausted from a long first day of grueling N.E.W.T. level courses, Leta shrugs it off, and resolves to try again at the end of class.

She waits until everyone, professor included, has left the room, before making her way over to him, determined to catch him before he walks out the door and becomes lost to the bustling crowd. 

He doesn't see her at first, arms laden as they are with a towering stack of books on all manner of misunderstood creatures littered throughout wizarding history, as well as a fair few detailing the ins and outs of magical law enforcement, intending to find loopholes so that he may travel the world and rescue as many as he can from extinction, extermination, and experimentation.

Startled by the sound of her voice as she walks up behind him, taps him on the shoulder, and chimes out a cheerful _hello!_ , Newt jumps, sending his mountain of leather-bound books tumbling from out of his arms and scattering all across the classroom floor.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to frighten you," Leta apologizes as she swoops down to help him.

"No matter," Newt mumbles, eyes glued to the ground as he fretfully shoves book after book into his already overcrowded school bag.

Leta rises, dusting off her hands on the hem of her robes and glancing around for something else to preoccupy the awkward moment, searching for some other way she can possibly be helpful.

"Oh! You've forgotten to close your desk," she says, eyes settling on the open lid. The inside compartment is covered in all of its usual engravings, plus one new addition that she's almost _certain_ hadn't been there the last time it'd been hers. If she can just get close enough, she'll be able to read what it says. 

"Here, I'll just—"

"No!" Newt shouts in sudden alarm, school bag thudding to the floor as he springs to his feet and throws his arms into the air in a desperate attempt to shield the desk from view. But he's too late. Judging by the look Leta is giving him, the damage has already been done.

"Oh, Newt," she sighs softly, and the sheer _sympathy_ that laces her voice is enough to make Newt recoil in humiliation. Scarlet paints his pulse points as he hastily splays his palms across the curious carving, but Leta stops him, placing one of her hands on top of his, gently nudging him aside. 

For a moment, she's silent, fingertips tracing the outline of the simple inscription, transfixed by the sight of their initials, forever emblazoned in oak.

"When did you—" she asks.

"Last day of term, sixth year," Newt admits around a heavy sigh. 

Leta's eyes flicker up toward his, her expression sharp. 

"The night we…I mean to say, just a few hours before you and I…erm…" he trails off, his blush growing impossibly deeper. 

Leta's smile drops, his words like daggers to her heart, barbed along the edges by the genuine gentleness of his tone, by the rosy tinge that stains his cheekbones, prickling reminders of the mess she's made. With a pang, Leta realizes that the moment she's been dreading all summer long has finally arrived.

"Newt," she says softly, his name falling from her lips in an agonized moan. "That night…it was…"

Newt says, "wonderful" at the very same moment that Leta says, "a mistake," effectively snuffing out the last remaining ember of hope he'd been clinging to.

"Oh," he says simply. "Alright, then."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, eyes crinkled at the corners, lips curved into a rueful frown. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Newt cuts her off with a curt reply, his voice oddly calm and detached as he stares unblinkingly at the cracks and grooves etched in the weathered classroom floor. "My mistake for assuming it would lead to anything more than…what it was."

"Newt, please listen to me. I never—" Leta tries again.

"And just so we're clear, I didn't _necessarily_ intend for the carving to be a romantic thing," Newt interrupts with renewed gusto, determined to patch up the sinking ship before he's utterly _drowning_ in her pity. "I just wanted to surprise you with something nice. Something to remind you, whenever you're in doubt, that you're not…that you've always got…that it's us against the world, Leta. But then we…that night…and I _assumed_ it meant that you…that we were…so I wrote you all of those letters, and I—"

"I didn't _know_ ," Leta says around a strangled cry. "Everything you wrote to me this summer…all of those beautiful, heartfelt words, I…I had no _idea_ you felt that way. I never meant to lead you on. I just thought…to be perfectly honest, I don't know _what_ I was thinking that night. I was confused. I didn't know _what_ I wanted."

_I didn't know_ who _I wanted_ , the unspoken words tangle in the air between them like wisps of smoke. Newt pauses for a moment, considering her.

"So you _did_ get my letters, then," he says, his lips pressed into a hard, thin line.

Leta closes her eyes around a pained expression, one rogue tear slipping down the side of her cheek.

_Soften the blow_ , she muses. _You've administered the poison, now give him the slow-acting antidote._

"Newt," she says, eyes brimming with tears as she fixes him with an affectionate smile. "You are one of the most amazing, wonderful, kindhearted people I have ever met. You deserve to be loved as deeply and unconditionally as you love all of your creatures. And I wish…I _wish_ that I could be that person for you, but I just…"

Leta's voice falters as she swallows back an agonized sob, hastening to brush back a fresh wave of tears just before they threaten to fall.

"All these years, you've been like a brother to me," she says, and the sheer _sincerity_ of her words is like a casual twist of the knife to Newt's bleeding heart. "And in that sense, I'll _always_ love—"

"Don't," he says, his voice trembling with equal parts heartache and tranquil ire, like the steady calm before an ocean storm. "Please don't do that."

The blunt finality of her words rips through him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, forever souring that seemingly wonderful night they had shared. 

He does not want nor need her pity. Pity in the wake of a broken heart is just poison masquerading as a promise.

Of course, the logical, forgiving part of his mind _knows_ that it's wrong to resent her for this. Knows full well that Leta does not owe him a damn thing. That she never truly promised him anything. That this was all just a fantasy he'd let himself get carried away with, assuming her affections, inferring her intentions.

But the truth of it is that it simply did not mean the same thing to her as it did for him. She's not _required_ to love him. He couldn't possibly expect her to. No one can help how they feel, after all, and he knows he simply has to accept and respect that.

All the same, he can't really help how _he_ feels, either; his heart wounded, his pride stung. Much as he desires to uphold the ideals of his beloved house, logic and rationale for the sake of fairness do very little to ease the pain of rejection.

The only thing he really _can_ begrudge her for, Newt reasons, is the fact that she never bothered to reply to him all summer, if only just to let him know that she was okay. Given her family's murky history, and Leta's estrangement from her father, it's a fair thing to worry about.

For a moment, he truly considers turning on his heel and sweeping from the room, giving her a dose of the silent treatment _he'd_ received all summer. But there's no resolution to be found in the wake of blatant pettiness, and so, with much difficulty, Newt summons the courage to come right out and ask her, to resolve it once and for all.

"I just want to know one thing," he says, trying his damnedest to sound far more confident than he actually is. "Why didn't you write to me all summer? I was worried _sick_ about you. Why did you only write to Theseus?"

This last query tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, but the effect is admittedly satisfying. Leta's eyes widen in shock, a delicate blush creeping across the curves of her cheekbones as she grapples with what to say.

"How do you—" she gasps, looking positively scandalized. Out of habit, she goes on the defensive, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "How _dare_ you. Have you been reading our private correspondence all this time?"

"Not at all," Newt says calmly, in direct defiance of the acrid anguish that churns in the pit of his stomach at her harsh accusations. "I only know because I recognized your handwriting on a collection of envelopes in passing all summer. All addressed to Theseus. All delivered by his owl. Scattered across the breakfast table in plain sight. I can assure you I never read a single word of the letters contained therein. You know I would never invade your privacy like that."

At least she has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Of course you wouldn't," she relents with a heavy sigh, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "I didn't mean to lose my temper. I just thought—"

"I know what you thought," Newt retorts, finding it hard to keep the venom out of his voice just now. He's hurt, he's _trying_ to be kind about it, and yet still, she's lashing out at him. For all the cold malice and clever lacerations that have ever fallen from Leta's lips, she'd never expected to hear something so clipped and accusatory coming from sweet, docile Newt. It momentarily stuns her.

There isn't anything she can do to fix this, is there? 

Though they could _try_ to move forward, to sweep it under the rug and pretend as though everything between them is perfectly normal, it would still always be there, brimming beneath the surface on a low simmer, filling the cracks in their foundation with seeds of doubt and duplicity. 

All that remains now is the very thing she should have afforded him from the start: absolute honesty, even if it salts the wound, even if it paints her as a villain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't write to you sooner," she says with a defeated sigh. "I know it's no excuse, but I just…I didn't know what to say."

"And how could anyone expect you to," Newt says softly, offering her a grimace disguised as a smile. "When your heart belongs to someone else?"

Leta's lips part in surprise. Though really, she shouldn't expect any less from the man who spends his entire life _observing_. Of course he'd figured it out.

"Has done for years now, hasn't it, Leta?" he asks.

She isn't entirely certain how long she stands there, simply staring at him, their only companion the distant chirrups of late afternoon birdsong and the idle chatter of students echoing through the corridors on the other side of the classroom, sunset bathing its walls in a rose gold glow as it sinks beneath the mountains.

After a moment, Leta simply nods, not trusting her voice to remain unaffected.

"My brother," he says. It's not a question. He's suspected it for quite some time now, though he never wanted to believe it.

Leta nods again, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she stares determinedly at the soft patch of gingerbread curls that obscure Newt's face, silently begging him to look up at her, though his is eyes remain resolutely fixed to the river of grooves and nicks across the hardwood floor.

"Well that's... _congratulations_ , I suppose. I'm..." he trails off, choking on the words _happy for you_ because he's not. Of course he's not. How could he be?

He refuses to look her in the eye, and it's _that_ little detail that breaks Leta's heart the most, because it means that she's no longer someone that Newt feels safe around, no longer someone that Newt trusts.

He stays until he absolutely cannot bear it any longer, silence deafening in the wake of this not-so-unexpected revelation. He mumbles something unintelligible about needing to pay a visit to his bowtruckles, plasters a pained attempt at a smile across his face, gives her a small cursory nod, and bolts out the door with his school bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, leaving Leta quite alone in the empty classroom.

He's expelled not long after, secluding himself in the depths of the Forbidden Forest well past curfew, preferring the company of its creatures to the lonely confines of the castle walls. Official records will say that it's because he got caught experimenting with dangerous magical creatures and endangering human life. But everyone always forgets to mention one crucial detail: the only life his reckless, carefree adventuring ever endangered was his _own_.

**• • •**

All of it flashes across her mind in vivid detail, fresh as the day it had happened, nearly thirteen years ago, as Leta stands in one of her old classrooms, fingertips gliding across the curves of two initials carved into the underside of her old school desk.

_L + N_

Her childhood best friend's very last gift to her, before everything between them had changed forever.


End file.
